Just Walk Away
by Ashvarden
Summary: Steve goes home for the night, but soon finds himself wishing he hadn't. No pairings, Steve POV.


I stood on the rickety old porch at the front of my house, feeling strangely reluctant to go in. I'd just come from the Curtis's place, hanging out with the gang for a while. We'd played football, and I was nursing a few bruises from it. Well, OK, maybe more than a few… I felt like my whole body was one huge bruise.

We play pretty rough, I guess.

It was a Sunday, the only day I had off during the week—I worked part-time at the DX, fixing up cars and pumping gas and working behind the counter sometimes, too. Between that, school, and my friends, I wasn't home much, so it felt kinda weird being here in the middle of the day like this. Usually I didn't come home 'til late, after I figured my dad would be in bed or passed out in the living room or something, and I hardly ever stuck around the next morning. I'm asleep for 90 of the time I spend here.

It was barely five o'clock, and I kind of wished I'd stayed at Soda's house for a few more hours, but I didn't want to mooch off of the Curtises _too_ much. I figured they'd get sick of me pretty damn quick if they had to put up with me 24/7. Soda's the only Curtis brother that actually likes me—Darry still hasn't got over that 'all brawn, no brains' comment I made, which I didn't even _mean _by the way, and Ponyboy… well, I don't like him much either, so I guess you could call our relationship 'mutual tolerance' or something. We only put up with each other because of Soda.

I eyed the door warily, like it was gonna burn me or something if I touched it. I didn't really want to go in there, but I figured I'd be better off here than sleeping on Soda's couch again—that's practically my second home nowadays—or a park bench somewhere. I would've got a room at Buck's, but I didn't have the money for it. Well, I did, but I couldn't use it. Let me tell you, I was tempted as all get-out, I even had the check stuffed in my back pocket—payday was yesterday, and since I was still wearing the same jeans, it was still in my pocket—but deep down I knew I wouldn't. I never have before, and after all the shit I've been through in this house, I'd feel like a coward using it to get out of here now.

A few more months, and I'll finally be free of all this. I've just gotta wait it out.

I walked inside slowly, letting the screen door slam behind me. I winced at the sound, hoping that my dad wasn't home. The last thing I needed was him starting in on me for "disrespectin' his property" or whatever he wants to call it.

He'll start ripping on me over the littlest things, usually because he don't have nothing better to do than drink his booze and yell at me all the time. I get real sick of it all, but there ain't much I can do about it except stay out of his way and not talk back at him.

He hates that especially, even when what I'm saying ain't anything bad. Maybe he just don't like hearing me talk, or something.

Anyway, I was half-starved, so I wandered into the kitchen and made myself something to eat. I'm not exactly much of a cook—just ask the Curtises, I'm not even allowed near their stove anymore after that one time I accidentally started a fire right there in their kitchen—and besides that I wasn't in the mood for going all out, so I just slapped together a peanut-butter sandwich and headed up the stairs to my room.

My room's at the very end of the hall, at the back of the house, which is both good and bad depending on the situation. It makes it harder to sneak around, what with my parents' room being between mine and the rest of the house, but I'm farther away from the living room, so the yelling ain't quite so loud when my mom and dad get into it with each other over something. (Usually it's about me, or his drinking, or how he still don't have a job even though it's been almost six months already since he got fired from his last one.)

Another good thing about my room is that it's got a big window. I can only climb out through it when my dad's home, though, and has his truck parked underneath my window—I usually jump out onto the top of the cab and climb down from there. It's a damn good thing it's big enough for me to sneak through; I can't exactly use the door if I wanna come and go without my parents knowing. Not that they really care—I'm usually in and out at all hours of the day and night, and they've never seemed to have much of a problem with it before unless I accidentally wake them up or something.

But sometimes I just don't wanna see either of them, you know? I know I'm "supposed" to love them and all, them being my parents and everything, but sometimes… sometimes, I really hate being around them. Sometimes—if I'm being truthful, it's more like _all_ the time—I just can't stand them.

I don't know too many guys on this side of town that really get along with their parents. Hell, half of them don't even hardly _see _their parents most of the time, and when they do it ain't exactly something to be happy about. (The same goes for me, I guess, but at least I have a home to go to, unlike Dally.) About the only guys I know that can even stand being around their parents are Two-Bit—but that's mostly because his mom's pretty laid-back and she lets him get away with murder, practically, that and the fact that she's hardly ever home—and the Curtis brothers—their parents are dead now, but before they died, they all got along real good. Hell, Mrs. Curtis was more of a mother to me than mine was, or is.

Come to think of it, Mr. Curtis treated me more like a son than dad ever has, too… he actually took me aside one time, after I brought home a really good report card from school, and he said he was real proud of me. I could see in his eyes that he meant it, too. I can't remember dad ever saying that to me, let alone saying it and meaning every word of it. In most ways, the Curtises were more my family than mom and dad.

I headed to my room and locked the door—my dad obviously wasn't home, or else I would've been hearing a whole lot of yelling by now about slamming that door, but he'd likely be home soon and I really didn't wanna deal with him right then—then shrugged out of my jacket and tossed it at the bed. It landed right on the edge, with one of the sleeves hanging over the side.

I kicked off my shoes, flopped down on my bed, and took a big bite out of my sandwich—I had that thing demolished in about three bites, I was so hungry.

I'd had a pretty bad day so far already—you know, the kind where one thing after another goes wrong, and you start to wonder if you maybe pissed off somebody mighty important "Up There" in a past life or something, if you get my meaning—and I knew that if I had another run-in with my dad, it would be getting a whole lot worse.

Stifling a yawn, I rolled over onto my stomach and stretched out. My feet were hanging over the side, but I didn't really care enough to move them. I thought about turning on the radio, but nixed that idea pretty quick. I didn't want it on when my dad got home, or he'd start bitching about it straight off.

It's better not to make too much noise at my house. My dad's usually in a pretty bad mood when he comes home from wherever it is he goes during the day—who am I kidding, he's _always _in a bad mood—and it's better if he don't know right away that I'm home, anyways, or else he'll find something to complain about. He's not usually _as_ bad when my mom's home, so if I stayed "hidden" until she got home from work, it'd be better for all of us, especially me.

Sometimes, when I'm stuck at home or don't got nowhere better to go, I just stay in my room the whole day to avoid him and mom, and they don't even realize I'm there. Which is even worse than when they _do _know I'm there, usually, because they have these 'conversations'—aka bitching sessions—about me when they think I'm gone somewhere.

There's only so many times a guy can hear his own parents blaming everything under the sun on him before he starts to wonder if maybe they're a little bit right about some of it…

…Not that I do, I ain't _that_ far gone yet. I'm fully aware that it's _my _paycheck that pays a lot of the bills; mom doesn't make enough to support herself, let alone all three of us, and dad don't work at all, so _I'm_ the one keeping the lights on and putting food on the table.

Maybe that's why it pisses me off so much when dad starts in on how I'm a 'big waste of space' and how I'm 'damn lucky' that he 'lets' me live here. _I'm _the one paying the bills and everything, so he don't got no room to be talking.

I was zoned out so bad that I didn't even hear dad's truck pulling in—I noticed pretty quick though when he came trampling in through the door like a herd of elephants and slammed the door behind him so loud it _echoed_. (Funny how I get yelled at for slamming doors, but when he's the one doing it, it's just fine, huh?)

Sighing, I picked at a loose thread on my pillowcase. I could already tell it was gonna be a _real _fun night.

Page Break

Mom got home about an hour later, and dad started in on her straight away.

I tried to block it all out, but pretty soon the yelling started up and got louder and louder 'til I couldn't ignore it anymore. I didn't wanna hear what it was about this time, but the walls in our house ain't real thick and you'd have to be half-deaf not to hear what all they were saying. Hell, the entire _block _could hear them when they really got to screaming at each other.

It was the usual argument—me. I'm pretty sure it's their favorite one by now…or at least, the one they have the most. Sometimes I wonder why they even bother with it—it's like they're reading off a script or something, saying the same things at the same places with the same outcome every single goddamn time.

I thought about pulling my pillow over my head, but dismissed that idea pretty quick. I knew it wouldn't make a difference, not with the way they were yelling. I tried to distract myself by thinking about the cars I'd fixed at work the day before—my thoughts lingered on a really tuff-looking candy-apple red '64 Mustang in particular, the kind of car you'd never see this side of the tracks unless the Socs in it were planning on jumping a Greaser or two—but I could still hear them arguing.

"…worthless, Carolyn, I'm tellin' you…a fuckin' _hood_, for God's sakes…shoulda kicked him out a long time ago…nothing but trouble…"

It sounded like my dad was really getting into his rant. Mom's voice was quieter, but I could still kind of make out what she was saying.

"…just stop it, Brian…at least _he's_ trying…not _my _fault, don't you blame this on me…well, then why don't you go get a goddamn job!"

Something smashed out in the kitchen—probably a plate, my parents were always throwing them at each other (and me, too, sometimes, if I got in the way of one of their screaming matches)—and I flinched even though I'd been waiting for it for the last five minutes at least.

Biting my lip, I swallowed hard and got up off my bed. I jammed my feet into my shoes and grabbed my jacket off the bed, then unlocked the bedroom door and snuck out into the hallway. The whole time I was praying that my parents wouldn't notice me leaving.

I would've just slipped out through the window, but dad hadn't parked his truck under my window like he usually did. I could still jump down, but it'd be a hell of a landing. I decided to take my chances leaving the way normal people generally do—through the front door.

Mom and dad had stopped yelling, which could've been either a good or bad sign depending on why they'd stopped. I hoped it wasn't because they'd heard my door opening—I doubted it, though, they never notice stuff like that when they're arguing. Too busy yelling to notice a few little noises, I guess. One time, when I was a little kid, I even dropped a glass on accident—shattered it all over the floor and everything—and they just kept on screaming at each other. They didn't even hear it.

I walked as quietly as I could down the stairs and slipped into the kitchen. I grabbed a Pepsi out of the fridge and then headed for the door. For a second—one sweet, blissful second—I thought I was gonna make it. Dad saw me, though, and barked, "Steve! Get your worthless ass over here!"

He sounded pissed off, and I really wanted to just ignore him and walk away,but I knew I'd just be making things worse for myself by giving him an actual reasonto be mad at me. Reluctantly, I walked into the living room. I left the Pepsi on the counter—I didn't want my dad seeing it.

"Yeah?" I asked, stopping in the doorway, out of arm's reach. Not that that would stop him from taking a swing at me if he really wanted to, but I wasn't about to make it any easier for him by getting too close.

"You get your check yet?" he snapped impatiently.

I nodded reluctantly and pulled the item in question out of my back pocket. Mom watched us from over by the TV stand, and I could see the worry in her eyes. I hated worrying mom; the fact that she only really looks worried when it looks like I'm not gonna cough up more money to pay for shit was beside the point. She sucked as a parent, but I guess I didn't wanna disappoint her or something. Stupid, huh? After everything she's done to me, and everything she's said, I still can't stand to see that disappointed look on her face or hear it in her voice. It sends me on these massive guilt trips for some strange reason.

That look—well, that and the inevitable beating from dad that would follow, though I wouldn't admit to that being a factor, what with me being a tough, hard Greaser and all—was all that kept me from saying something about how he should work for his own goddamn money and pay his own goddamn bills and support his own goddamn family. I wanted so bad to say all those things, but I didn't.

I felt like a coward. I didn't even have the guts to talk back to my old man.

I handed the check to dad, biting the inside of my cheek to keep myself from saying something I'd regret later, if only because keeping my mouth shut would've saved me the beating. I looked out the window, at the floor, anywhere but at him. I didn't wanna see the greedy look on his face, how he acted like it was _his _hard-earned money he was holding in his hands when _I _was the one busting my ass to get it. When _I_ was the one _earning_ it.

I'd known he'd ask for it, he always did, but I was a little mad about it anyways.

He takes all my checks from working at the DX to pay the bills and buy himself beer and shit like that, but sometimes I'll get five or six bucks of it back when he "apologizes" to me. What that "apology" really is is a way of getting me to come back home after he kicks me out again, so I'll keep on bringing money home for him and he won't have to get off his ass and go get himself a job.

I think it's kinda ironic that he tries to buy me off with my own money. I never say anything about it, though, just take the money he hands out to me, because how else am I gonna get some cash around here?

I've never told anyone where all my money goes, but I think Soda's got some kind of idea. One time he wanted to go on a double date—to the drive-in with Sandy and Evie—right after payday, and I told him I couldn't go even though I'd been all hyped up about going to the movies earlier in the day. (I'd been planning on it just being Soda and me going, and we could hop the fence and just walk on in without having to pay. We couldn't do that with the girls with us—they'd insist on doing it the legal way.) I wanted to go real bad, but I knew my dad would flip out on me—and probably beat the shit outta me, too—if I came home without allthe money.

While my dad was busy looking over my check, I turned to mom and murmured, in a real low voice, "I'm gonna go out, mom. I'll see y'all later."

"Go ahead, honey," she said. I could tell just from that that she was feeling guilty—she never calls me honey or sweetheart or any of those other stupid, embarrassing names moms call their kids unless she's feeling bad about something. To her, I've never been anything besides Steve. In a way I'm kind of grateful for that—I still remember the way Soda would go beet red whenever Mrs. Curtis would start in calling him honey, or baby, or some other mushy, "cute" name that'd have me trying to muffle my laughter.

I started to walk back into the kitchen, but my dad spoke up before I could move more than a couple of steps. "Did _I _say you could leave?" I froze on the spot, mouthing a cuss, and slowly turned back towards him.

"No."

He laid the check—my check—on the battered old coffee table and started towards me. I tensed in anticipation; I could already tell he was gonna hit me. I braced myself for it, all the while knowing that there wasn't much point in it; there ain't many good things I can say about my dad, but he sure can pack a punch. I just wish it wasn't me he used it on all the time.

He got right up in my face and swung, hard. His fist hit me in the eye, and, thrown off balance by the force of his punch, I stumbled backwards and went crashing to the floor. I damn near knocked a picture off the wall just from the shaking, I landed so hard.

"Fuck," I muttered through clenched teeth, waiting for the pain to subside so that I could stand up without keeling over. He'd got me good, right on top of one of my half-healed bruises.

Dad stepped closer so that he was right next to me practically, looking down at me with a cold expression on his face.

"Now, when you wanna do somethin', you ask _me_. You hear that, you stupid hood? I'm the man o' the house around here, an' your ma ain't got no place to agree to stuff behind my back." I resisted the urge to tell him that it hadn't been behind his back—he'd been facing us the whole time.

He backed off then, shooting me a disgusted look. "Get outta here," he snarled, pointing at the door. "And don't you come back, neither."

I didn't say anything, just got up and walked out. I slammed the door behind me, figuring I might as well do something that'd piss him off. It wasn't like I was gonna go home again anytime soon, so he could get as mad as he wanted and I wouldn't give a damn.

Walking across the front lawn, I automatically started towards the spot where I usually park my car. I stared at the empty space for a long moment, frowning, before I remembered that it was at work. I was having some problems with the brakes, so I'd left it there to fix up tomorrow, during my shift when business was slow enough that I could do it without getting interrupted every couple of minutes.

Swearing, I started walking down the street towards the vacant lot. It was only about five blocks over, not a very long walk, for which I was grateful. I didn't want to be out walking right now—I wanted to flop out on the ground or on that old car seat we hauled out there and just relax for once. I touched my eye gingerly, just barely managing not to flinch and poke myself in the eye with my fingers or something when I pushed a little too hard on the rapidly-forming bruise. I was gonna have one hell of a shiner.

I was halfway down the block before I realized that I'd left my Pepsi on the counter.

A/N: This is my first fic from Steve's POV— how was the characterization? Do I have him completely wrong?


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